


Lover of The Light

by bellamithrinethings, wingedcastielpie



Series: The Angel and His Righteous Man Archive [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bottom Sam Winchester, Depressed Castiel, Depressed Dean, Depression, Destiel - Freeform, Dirty Talk, Drugged Dean, Drunk Castiel, Drunk Dean, Drunken sex, Family Issues, Fluff and Smut, Gay Castiel, Gay Sex, Heavy Angst, Homophobic John Winchester, Insomnia, Insomniac Castiel, Insomniac Dean, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Literally haven't been in sexual activities before but writes about it like we've been there, M/M, Multi-Chapter Destiel, Not Like Twist and Shout - gabriel & standbyme, Rough Sex, Somnophilia, Switching, Teen AU, Teen! Dean, Top Castiel, Top Dean Winchester, Top Gabriel, teen! Castiel, we're going to hell for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6964216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamithrinethings/pseuds/bellamithrinethings, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedcastielpie/pseuds/wingedcastielpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was in the middle of the night when two renegades with tattoos of their failures and past met under the same lamp post. As the strange tale of romance and betrayal unfolded in the ungodly hours of the night, two boys of different upbringing, yet the same views in life developed a bond as profound as the darkest skies of the dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lover of The Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polarvoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polarvoid/gifts), [hishirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hishirin/gifts).



> Author's Note: This story tackles about sensitive topics such as: suicide, child abuse, adultery hence resulting to a dysfunctional family, underage drinking, smoking, drugs, depression and insomnia. 
> 
> Disclaimer: We do not own anything except for the ideas. 
> 
> This multi-chapter destiel fanfiction written by two sleep-deprived girls is dedicated to: alien_alia and ArkangelsMooose because Jamie (wingedcastielpie) insisted (she said something about forgetting a gift fic).

**Soundtrack of Chapter One:**

_"So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light;_  
_Cause oh they gave me such a fright;_  
_But I will hold as long as you like;_  
_Just promise me we'll be alright;"_

 _Ghost That We Knew_ by Mumford & Sons

* * *

 

 

                It was raining when Castiel’s mother, Naomi, a tired-looking woman with her hair roughly thrown in a haphazard bun on the top of her head filed with a knotted rubber band, threw a plate against the wall. It shattered and broke into tens of pieces on the tiled kitchen-floor, the flowery decorations on the borders of the plate chipped away from the impact.

                Castiel’s wide, surprised, cerulean eyes observed the few bouncing grains-like pieces of the plate as he slung his wet backpack behind a chair and proceeded to gather the destroyed puzzle of porcelain in his trembling, cold hands.

                He mutely went to do his work, his ears straining out to listen to the shouting in a small room that they call the living room.

                “NO! Carver, tell me the truth! Are you seeing Melissa?” Naomi's voice cracked.

                Melissa was his father’s secretary in the office, with her attentive blue eyes and glossy-as- magazine-pages black hair. Castiel went to his father’s workplace once, unannounced when he strolled into his father's office and saw his secretary straddling his father's lap.

                The shock from his father's—no, Carver's— face when he saw Castiel's wide eyes made him think whether his father felt the same shock he did when he realized that his family was breaking apart.

                'We weren't really a family to begin with,' Castiel reminded himself.

                He continued grabbing the pieces when he accidentally held the plate piece on the wrong edge. A drop of blood followed by another slowly slipped down the curve of his left hand's palm. Sighing, Castiel opened the trash bin and dumped the porcelain pieces. He went to the sink and opened the spout of water, his thoughts wandering over how his mother found out about Carver's infidelity when he hissed in pain, and all thoughts focused then on getting his cut clean.

 

                He was waiting for it to happen.

                He caught his father six months ago and stayed silent, hoping to keep this sin of betrayal under the wraps so he can play pretend that they have the perfect family.

                In those six months, a lot happened and Castiel’s naïveté turned into bitter realization that he cannot have everything if he stayed silent and avoided the conflicts.

                That night, Castiel heard the bang of the front door and then the quiet hum of his father's Porsche through his bedroom window. He was sitting on the roof ledge, his skin tingling from the cold as the mist of the rain kept the temperature low enough that he grabbed his jacket. The headlights of the Porsche flickered on and the dark neighborhood was washed with its light as Carver drove away, probably to Melissa or any other co-worker he was fucking.

                The house was silent except for the small, timid footsteps in Castiel’s room as Naomi climbed the bedroom window and sat beside her son. Castiel noticed idly that his mother hasn't removed her apron yet, and there were some bubbles attached to the strings of her hair that escaped her hair tie.

                Castiel was silent.

                When everything around him was loud—loud shouting,  loud, dark thoughts, loud drunken reprimanding— Castiel tried his best to become as quiet as possible, closing in the walls he had to keep away the noise and just calmly take everything in.

                Naomi's sniffing was loud enough for Castiel to know that his mother was crying.

                There was something about the thought 'his mother was crying' that made him wallow in sadness. This was the woman that raised Castiel with love, and all she wanted was for Castiel and for Carver to love her back. His mother gave and gave and gave and gave until there was nothing left of her, only decaying sticks and bones because she gave her heart to Castiel, her only son.

                His mother, whom gave up her future as an International Engineer to become a housewife, to wash the dishes and mop the floors, and for her to be treated like a one-night-stand waitress by Carver...

                Castiel rarely felt anger. He knew anger was a second-reaction emotion. That beneath the anger, there was something much deeper.

                But he can't help being _mad_.

                Carver was a grade A+ douchebag. Here, Castiel can find happiness, in this house with his mother singing strange ballads about love and forgotten memories, and yet Carver can't. He destroyed Castiel's happiness. Castiel didn’t understand, though. They have the money, they have Naomi's love to lighten up the house, Castiel’s intelligent musings and Carver wasn’t contended with that.

                What more can he take without giving it back?

                “Momma,” Castiel said quietly. When was the last time he called her ‘Momma’? Six years ago? Back when he thought that the stars come down to earth, and they aren't really stars, but angels? “I have you.”

                Naomi sniffed again, the cool August night wasn't really helping at all to depress her colds. She smiled tightly, her lips pulled up in the corners as if they were knotted and it was wounded up too much. Castiel then noticed that only two words can really explain his mother's expression: tight and tired.

                Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes red from the crying and possibly being up all night to organize things Carver wanted. Her hands look mangled and old from getting into the water too much—and Castiel remembered that his mother was allergic with strong detergent, but she preferred hand-washing clothes for some reason. Her cheeks were red and, despite from the fresh batch of tears that she was trying so hard to wipe away, they looked dry as if she was under the sun too long, or she was just living skin attached to bones and vessels and capillaries of blood in between.

                No emotions.

                Used.

                Not human.

                However, she always looked so… strong. Enduring these problems with a few tears, a broken heart, a lost soul, but always functioning at its best to supply for Castiel's needs. If there was one moment that he can truly say, without a doubt, that he loved his mother, it would've been that time.

                Naomi the Wonderwoman, her strong will that can carry Castiel. Naomi the muse, her voice that can lull Castiel to the Sea of Dreams. Naomi the doctor, always there to heal Castiel’s emotional and physical wounds and pains. Naomi the writer, no day would pass without one entertaining story she would impromptu for Castiel's request.

                And most importantly, Naomi the martyr— a mother that was always willing to sacrifice.

                Castiel wasn't one to believe in deities or mythology, however, he was very much sure his mother was an angel from Heaven or godsend.

                Naomi Novak, an angel of the Lord— always the one to fulfill her cause—and here, Castiel was her cause. Her anchor. Her reasons.

                Castiel loved the idea that he was enough. That whatever semblance of a normal life they've been trying to establish would be insufficient, but since he was there for his mother, it would be enough. But they were just humans. Greedy humans, always wanting more. Castiel was enough, but Naomi needed something that was more than enough.

 

                It was raining, very much like the August rain they had experienced when his father left for a drive and never went back. The thunder rolled and sounded deep within the earth beneath Castiel's shoes. The soil was soft and squishy and it made a mess of his black polished shoes.

                But it didn't matter. The mud didn't, but the cold body of his mother six feet underneath it.

                He stared blankly at the tombstone that engraved his mother's name.

 

_In loving memory of_

_Amelia Naomi Novak_

_July 17, 1966 - August 30, 2013_

**_Indeed, only with difficulty does one die for a just person, though perhaps a good person one might even find courage to die._ **

**_Romans 5, 7_ **

 

                Cruel. And always will be cruel. Lifeless. Now, she'll truly just be a skin attached to bones and dead cells.

                Castiel turned away from the grave that contained his mother and her sins of tying a noose. He didn’t know what to do next, and wasn't even sure if he wanted to leave and will only truly see Naomi in his dreams and 3 o'clock AM hallucinations.

                In the distance, he can see Hannah, his aunt, together with her children, Gabriel, Samandriel and Anna.

                Hannah fussed over Castiel for a while, reprimanding him softly about catching a cold for staying too long under the rain. It was okay for Castiel, though. Colds were nothing compared to the sickness he felt right in the wells of his mourning and orphan heart. The umbrella was destroyed from the loud howls of the wind, anyway. He wondered if he’s as fragile as his mother's umbrella— with its frayed ends and twisted skeleton.

 

 

*          *          *

 

               

                Lakeshore, Kansas was a very small town, quite the one he can relate to Sam and Frodo's village. It mainly consisted of a small knitted community that made Castiel feel out of place. It was like everything was already set and Castiel was forced to jam himself into their lives, as if he was the new character in a small town sitcom. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t want to belong here. He was never really good at fitting in anyway, especially in his Aunt Hannah's family of four.

               

                Castiel’s silence often unnerved his spontaneous cousin, Gabriel, who seemed to exist for sweetened pieces of food and to counterbalance Castiel's personality. His eyes were honey gold, radiating with exuberance that was as brilliant as his sheer joyous proclamations to everything around him. His hair was the color of Castiel's favorite notebook— light brown and as warm as the sun. However, his smile was nothing compared to his physical looks. Gabriel's smile reminded Castiel of children chasing after the Ice cream truck and sneaking out to watch past their bed time.

                Next to Gabriel was the temperamental Anna, with her flaming red hair as passionate as her thoughts and expressions. Anna was two years younger than Castiel and three years from Gabriel's age. However, age was nothing but a concept to her, as she was always the deep thinker. The one who stayed up all night thinking about the possibilities that she can get when she finally left the town. Anna was made for wildest dreams about the world outside her little story of small towns, and she was intended to explore and Castiel wouldn't even doubt it when Anna says she would want to go to Jupiter just so she can see if she'd be lighter or heavier there.

                And the last of his three cousins was sweet Samandriel who looked after Castiel. Samandriel was four years younger than Anna, with his wide blue eyes resembling Castiel’s memories of innocence. He has nothing of Gabriel's outbursts, however, Samandriel has an aura of quiet and calming youthful curiosity with him. He has Anna's passion, engraved deep within his heart, like a burning yet melodious song of love and hope. Smiles of poetry and profound faith passed invisibly to those who wouldn't know where to look, for Samandriel's small and frail body deceived those who only swam in the shallow waters. The ten year old boy would always, always accompany Castiel in his dark, foreign room with a bed far too soft for his liking. He wouldn’t complain about the darkness behind the curtains unlike Gabriel, or push Castiel to get out of the house and start looking around the town, unlike Anna. He was accepting, emphatic, and he was the epitome of goodness and trust for Samandriel was nothing but those.

                He'd look at the three of his cousins and see a little bit of his mother in them. By the way Anna leaves a trail of somehow artistic things around the house, from Gabriel's sarcastic jokes to Samandriel's caring nature and intuitive attentiveness to Castiel's well- being.

                Thank his aunt for getting him out of North Carolina, out of his mother's hometown and his, or he'd be ravaged with grief that he'd barely stand to make himself food. At least he was like that the first few weeks until Hannah took notice of his absence from school and decided to semi-adopt Castiel.

                When Castiel was younger, he always knew that the only reason Carver stayed with him and Naomi was because of his legal ties with Castiel. By the eyes of the law, he was Carver's son— the pet he can't leave behind to migrate to another country, or in his case, to another woman's bedroom.

                Castiel never really felt lighter anyway. Sure, his weight was fairly a bit less than the average of the weight of teenagers around his age, but he felt heavier— since, he was probably just that. The heaviest baggage in their family.

                He should've convinced Hannah more vigorously that fitting himself into her family would only result to ashes—a reminder of how they were before Castiel.

                Maybe he'd call the days before he destroyed things 'B.C.' or Before Castiel; then 'A.C.' or After Castiel for the days that smelled of tears and too-cold coffee from staying up all night due to the troubles Castiel give.

                From that day on: September 15, 2013, Castiel started counting the days that are left to reach A.C. As Castiel gazed into the outside of his window, the pitter-patter of the rain that carried his retribution, he can’t help but to worry about how much his Aunt Hannah can suffer through his presence without snapping and for Castiel to finally pull the trigger, or drink unsubscribed drugs. He wished that the days will be longer, so she wouldn't have to deal it.

               

 

***          *          ***

 

 

                Dean Winchester was far from blessed, but he was listening to _Stairway to Heaven_ and the song has the tendency to make him feel just that.

                In fact, if there was one word that you can describe Dean as a whole, it would be the word 'Sinner'. He's done almost every single sin against the Ten Commandments, either. 'Bad boy' echoed from his classmates' lips, or, 'rebel' if you asked his schoolmates' parents. He was not exactly the kind of guy a sweet girl can bring home to meet her parents.

                Of course Dean wasn't exactly opposed to what they were saying. The cigarette trapped in between his calloused fingers was the proof, and the tattoo on his chest, right above the part where his dirty heart beats heavy metal guitar solos.

                Also, the fact that it was three in the morning in the deserted part of the neighborhood he grew up in added to the whole ‘Insurgent’ vibe he was pulling off.

                The third chorus of _Stairway To Heaven_ rang in the silence, slow like the sluggish ascent of the grayish smoke from the burnt end of his Marlboro cigarette. The asphalt beneath the thick soles of his military boots was damp from the previous rain that washed over the godforsaken town. Sounds of crickets were accompanying Dean's steady breathing, and were somehow mixing harmoniously with the forlorn tune of the aforementioned Led Zeppelin song. Or maybe he was just hearing things because he was drunk as fuck and couldn't think straight.

                Either way, Dean was more or less satisfied with what he had there, wet ass from sitting on wet grass or not. (He belatedly realized he made quite a rhyming line there that was as close as he can get from becoming the next Shakespeare.)

                As Dean's tired shoulders crumpled into his frame, it shook with silent hysterical laughter. Fuck, yeah, that was as close as he can get. Besides, he didn’t really have the time to practice his poetry writing skills, since everyone knew that Dean Winchester was just all about fucking and being fucked and it stops there. If chicks dig the flowery, knight-in-shining-armor crap, they knew damn well that they would have to go to Sam, Dean's younger brother, for that.

                Sam was the one wishing to go _Stanford University_ , anyway. Always the one with the brains in the family.

                Dean Winchester was far from being jealous or even _mad_ at his younger brother. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Dean was proud of Sam, proud that he can finally get somewhere in life while Dean's stuck in the same place as always, looking after their deadbeat father, John, so the old bastard wouldn’t drown himself in alcohol.

                It was kind of twisted that he didn't feel too bothered about it. He knew that was all he can really do— be responsible for his shitty family and drink his problems away.

                The seventeen-year-old Winchester grabbed the neck of the whiskey bottle beside his right boot and took a huge gulp, some of its contents slipping and running down Dean's jaw to his neck.

                As he laid the bottle on the ground with a glassy _thunk_ , he eyed the bright yellow of the lamp post above him, his neck bent in such a way that the cool surface of the post made him jerk away from the ice-cold for a second.

                'Huh,' Dean thought. 'Well, would ya look at that?'

                In the darkness of the three o'clock dawn surrounding him, he can almost see it.

                The alcohol didn't help him _unsee_ it, unsee the same replay he remembers whenever it was dark and there's a bright light that resembled the colors of flames that engulfed his mother, and all he has ever known.

                While Dean drew a few puffs of smoke from the cigarette, he drunkenly took note in his hazy mind not to sit under this lamp post again. He didn’t need the reminder of his past mistakes catching up with him at three in the morning while he's vulnerable as fuck.

                He breathed out through his lips, the rush of smoke out of his lungs gave him the odd combination of living his life and killing it slowly with tobacco, toxic chemical substances and subtle flames.

                Oh well, might as well feel every excruciating pain his mother felt when she was trapped, burning and screaming, inside Sam's nursery because of a spark of fire that started from Sam's night light.

                The night light that Dean had forgotten to turn off because he was busy playing with his airplane toy.

                As the swirls of the smoke floated in the air, Dean's green bloodshot eyes followed it. Then, he was startled, the whiskey sloshing around inside the bottle when he accidentally kicked it.

                About ten feet away from him was a boy with black hair, wearing a hoodie that was threatening to eat his body form.

                Dean blinked, the cigarette on the ground was left forgotten from the sudden appearance of the teen, who—Dean took note— was a stranger for someone with this look as troubled as the stranger's would surely be noticed by Winchester.

                Dean would acknowledge it, know the look even because that was the face of a person that suffered too much in such a little amount of time.

                That was the expression Dean sees every time he stares his reflection when passing by a tinted window of his classmate's car or, when he meets his reflection's eyes in the windshield mirror. 

                "You know, when they say the stars shine," Dean whispered, the cigarette rolling in between the tips of his fingers after he picked it up from the ground. "I never thought I'd see one before I die."

                Dean had absolutely no idea what he was saying, or whether he was flirting or not, he just knew that this stranger needed the same things Dean wanted for different reasons.

                It was like an unknown connection between two souls looking for solace in the middle of the night.

                "Who are you? Never seen ya around." Dean asked as he drew in a puff of smoke from his stick.

                The stranger, Dean noticed, barely moved from his position. The hood was pulled up enough to cover the stranger's eyes, but not the rest of his face. His hands were by his sides, twitching— from what, Dean wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

                There was just something eccentric in knowing nothing about the stranger in a town filled with overused excuses and cliché accidents.

                Great, now he's talking like Romeo while Juliet's by the balcony.

                Figuring that the stranger wouldn't mention his name, Dean lolled his head to the side and squinted his green eyes to look past the darkness and see the stranger's eyes.

                "Name's Dean. People call me 'Righteous Man 'round here, which I'd say, makes a good stripper name, eh?" He chuckled to himself. "'Course they don' think about it like that, those homophobic sons of bitches." 

                However, before Dean can blink and ask the stranger to sit beside him, the unknown man turned around and started walking away.

                But before he can disappear 'round the corner, a flash of blue filled Dean's vision. He may not have the stranger's name, but the color of his eyes would be fine. 

                Maybe he can start calling him Blue.

 

 

***          *          ***

 

 

                Castiel wasn't sure how he found himself in the middle of the new town he was in.

                What he did remember was seeing his mother's ghost beside his bed.

                Or maybe he was just dreaming.

                Castiel took a glimpse of the clock on his bedside table, 2:46 AM, before he shot off, the covers slipping around Castiel's torso to the carpeted floor, leaving him naked and shivering.

                He never really liked sleeping with his clothes on. They were too constricting and rough on his skin.

                He swiftly pulled up his sweatshirt from where it was lying from the ground and slipped his body into it. Next were his jeans, rumpled and with the smell of the sunscreen from yesterday's swimming in the pool Hannah rented for her children and Castiel to swim in.

                The hoodie, that one clothing that he always wore when he was going outside, made its way back to Castiel's warm body.

                And then off he was, running the minute the pads of his feet touched the ground from where he climbed down the tree near his bedroom window. He knew he'd get lost, twisting and turning into the alleyways of the town square— past the Church that Castiel refused to look at since he landed in the town a week ago. He entered another neighborhood part of the town and ran quicker when he saw the stretch of the road in front of him, away from the small cloud of familiarity behind him and into the world of unending possibilities.

                The sounds of crickets died the second Castiel saw him. In its place were the distant noises which can only be associated with a song being played using a mobile phone. Castiel's breathing was labored, though not as dog-tired as it sounded a minute ago, when he was running to chase away the lights of the highway.

                A teenager, around Castiel's age, was under the lamp post, drinking to a slow song with a stick of cigarette in between his hands. His leather jacket was pulled up to his chin, as if he was fighting off the cold of the harsh September, nearing October. And Castiel supposed that the teen did.

                The slight display in front of him found Castiel dumbstruck in its malevolence. Right there, ten feet away from him, was the face of youth— troubled and alone in the early hours of the morning.

                The Novak boy didn't know if anyone else in the world would see what he was seeing—but he supposed, if the world cannot, he'd just have to keep it his secret and bury it in the shelf of his mind where great moments were kept.

                It took a minute for the boy in the leather jacket to see Castiel watching.

                It took another minute for Castiel to turn away when the stranger introduced himself.

                No. Castiel cannot be acquainted with anyone in this town, but his relatives. If he ever did, he wouldn't know how to forgive himself for giving up the only chance he can get to forget about the beautiful and calm town he'd soon learn to love.

                Besides, all Castiel has been doing for his entire life was run and hide, slip past undetected by others. Why would he start doing that now, especially that his mother killed herself and his father hightailed away from the them to live his worry-free life with a woman thirteen years younger than him?

                Although, perhaps, there will come a day where he can forget about his burdens and hold out his hand to meet the stranger, maybe get to know more about the weight behind his green eyes.

                As Castiel walked back to where the house of his Aunt Hannah's was located, or where he assumed it was anyway, he gloomily thought that there will never come a day where he won't stop running.

                And, he didn't know if he had the ability to stop, to _can_ , the second he decided that he was too selfish and he can get what he wanted.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us in tumblr: wingedcastielpie.tumblr.com and bellamithrinethings.tumblr.com .  
> Drop by! :)


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